


The Melting Point of Wax

by Clea2011



Series: Vampyre au [2]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Christmas, Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clea2011/pseuds/Clea2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when the hunger gnawed at him so badly that he could hardly think straight, his neck would throb with the false pain of that first wound.  That had hurt, like nothing had ever hurt before or since.  But it was gone now, long since.  Now there was just the hunger.  And the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Melting Point of Wax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StealingPennies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealingPennies/gifts).



> This is part of the Primeval Denial Secret Santa gift exchange. Happy Seasonal greetings to my lovely friend StealingPennies.
> 
> I used your prompt 'The melting point of wax' and your requests: "I always feel blood adds a certain something to a fic – but you can interpret that however you wish, no one has to get hurt, they can just be watching vampires on tv or eating steak extra rare. 2) Something Christmassy (or other festival-related) 3) And what is Primeval without a creature of some sort – anything from an earwig upwards." 
> 
> It's possibly a little dark for a holiday exchange fic, but I'm hoping it's your sort of thing and you won't mind :-)
> 
> Thanks to Deinonychus_1 for reading it through for me.
> 
> ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Winter came around faster every year.

Becker walked slowly through the crowded streets, avoiding the last minute shoppers, the people hurrying out of work and running for cars or buses, anything to get them home and warm and out of the crush of the rat race for a few days.

He looked up at the lights that were hung high above the streets, pointless with the streetlights as well. ‘Save energy’ was something he was always hearing about now, on the TV, on brightly coloured leaflets and mailings that were pushed through his door. Those lights, he thought, would be a good place to start.

In the middle of the display, which this year appeared to be depicting the twelve days of Christmas again (honestly, did people have no imagination at all?) was a huge banner stretched across the street. ‘Merry Christmas’ it proclaimed.

It was strange. Not one of those people he was passing looked even remotely merry. Harassed, possibly. Tired, fed up. Not merry. Not even the couple wearing Christmas jumpers and Santa hats who were arguing furiously in the doorway of Tie Rack. Becker turned his collar up against the cold wind. If he was feeling the cold, then soon enough he was going to get hungry. Time to move out of the crowds.

When he was a child, London had been some mythical place, the streets paved with gold, somewhere that even a boy from a poor family could come good, make his fortune. For someone like Becker, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and everything money could buy, it shouldn’t have been so attractive. But he was restless and bored at the family manor, and soon enough he’d got on a coach and headed east. If he thought about it now, he wouldn’t be able to tell what it was that he had hoped to find. Something different, something better.

Something found him instead.

Sometimes, when the hunger gnawed at him so badly that he could hardly think straight, his neck would throb with the false pain of that first wound. That had hurt, like nothing had ever hurt before or since. But it was gone now, long since. Now there was just the hunger. And the cold.

For such a bustling, lively city, the quiet was easy to find in London. Everything was wide, main streets, brightly lit and densely peopled. You could turn a corner, into a side street, and within moments all that was gone. He could hear the bustle behind him, people still going about their business, preparing for their short celebration, the same that they’d done last year and would do the next. Over and over until someone or something stopped them.

It was quieter, the further away he walked. The sounds of the traffic and the crowds faded, and the number of people walking past him dwindled. There was no cause to go here, no tube station nearby, the shops all behind him. The offices were closed for the day, or peopled by workaholics who wouldn’t leave for hours yet. That just left the apartment blocks, endless, soulless cages that all looked alike, or the town houses ruined by conversion into tiny overpriced flats. Nothing that anyone would want to live in if they had a choice.

Here he would find something to eat. Down one of the narrow alleys perhaps, or in a darkened doorway. Quiet, remote, somewhere that nobody else would see.

He quickened his pace, there were still too many people around. Another street, a building site on one side, an office block on the other. It was perfect. And at the end, a narrow alley that wasn’t overlooked by anyone or anything.

And there was a young man, crouching there, looking at something on the ground. Perfect.

Becker was a hunter, smooth and silent. Years of this life had let him hone his skills until he could now move almost undetected. His prey often never knew what happened. He liked it that way. Others, they liked to taste the fear, hear the screams, the pleading, and the crying. That wasn’t for Becker. He just wanted to feed.

The young man was shining a torch on the ground, holding it in his teeth whilst he scribbled frantically in a notebook. Becker wondered if he would even have noticed if Becker had stomped up to him making all the noise in the world. No survival instinct, same as all the others.

It was evolution, really, Becker thought. It was the way he justified it to himself. Survival of the fittest, weeding out the weak.

“Don’t.”

Becker paused. The young man knew he was there, but didn’t even look up. What kind of fool knelt in an alley, alone, and didn’t even check who it was they could hear coming up behind him? He couldn’t know what Becker had planned, not unless he was one of those particular idiots who thought there would be something warm and exciting, a sexual frenzy to be had. It would, Becker thought, take a particular kind of pervert to have sex with something they actually intended feeding on afterwards. Sometimes it happened. Accidents… no, he wasn’t going to think of that. In the end, they seemed to realise and regret their mistake far too late, as their eyes dulled.

“What is it you expect me not to do?” He didn’t like to talk to them. That was another thing. Sometimes he was tempted to spare them if he did that. It made them too close, too real. But still, he was curious. He wasn’t sure how to deal with this one’s strange behaviour.

“Mug me, or whatever it is you think you’re doing. I’ve got no money, you’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t want your money.” A thought occurred to him. “Perhaps you were hoping for mine?”

There, that did it. The young man looked up at him then, slightly apprehensive and fearful. Some sense after all.

“I don’t… I’m not a… I’m not here looking for _that_.”

It was probably a lie. A young man, loitering alone in an alleyway. They were always looking for _that_. Becker crouched down, and sniffed at him. There was no odour of sickness about him, Becker could hear his heart beating loud and strong, could smell the freshness of his blood. He would do.

“There was a creature here,” the young man explained, talking quickly. He stood up, so Becker followed suit, never taking his eyes off his prey. “I’m a student, I’m taking notes for a project. You should go, in case it comes back. They can be dangerous.”

“There are dangerous predators in any city,” Becker agreed. He took a step closer, watching the pulse throbbing in his victim’s neck. He could bite down, taste that sweet blood…

“There! There it is!” The man pointed past Becker, wide-eyed and staring. “Oh God, it’s a raptor!”

Becker turned, and looked.

Ah. One of _those._ It would only take a micro-second…

 _“Stay there,”_ he commanded, and the young man froze on the spot.

He could have taken him there and then, drank deep without letting him suffer. But there was the creature, which would rip and tear and leave the scent of blood so deeply ingrained in the streets that it would be there for months. Becker and his kind would be walking around permanently alerted to it, dangerous and unstable. He hated that, hated not having control. Better to deal with it. He could feed too.

The raptor was watching him, preparing to strike. Those things were fast, but he was faster. It only took a few moments and then it was dead, and he was feeding. It wouldn’t sustain him as long as human blood, but it would do. And then he could find out just what this _student_ was doing.

\---

“What?” The young man stared at the raptor’s lifeless body. “What happened?”

Becker still felt cold. That was the trouble with cold-blooded creatures, they didn’t heat you properly. But the gnawing hunger was gone. He stepped up to the young man, taking hold of him by the throat. “I happened. Be glad that thing was there.”

The young man swallowed, pale and afraid now. As he should be. “I’m Connor,” he blurted. “I… that thing’s a dinosaur.”

A name. That always made it harder to kill them if they had a name. Perhaps he’d use this one for sex instead now it had a name, let it go afterwards if it survived, if he could resist the pounding of the blood in his veins. The dark hair and dark eyes appealed. If he had a type then perhaps that was it.

“I know what it is. I’ve seen enough of them. Killed enough of them.”

“You’re cold,” Connor breathed. Becker wondered if he just meant his skin temperature.

“And you’ll warm me well enough.” It wasn’t a question, but Connor still thought he could refuse.

“I’m not a whore,” Connor insisted. But the way he looked at Becker said otherwise. And everyone was in the end. They all had a price. It wasn’t always about money.

“I want to know about the other creatures you’ve seen, how you killed them. I’m writing a thesis.”

And that, surprisingly, was the price. Something Becker could never let him share with the world. He nodded, and leaned in closer, pressing Connor’s warm body against his own. “Well then, let me help you.”

\---

The house was empty when Becker got home. That was how he liked it. Quiet, and no chance of being challenged for his prize.

“Wow,” Connor exclaimed, looking around at the vast marble staircase leading up through the hallway. “You live here?”

“I’m one of the owners. My rooms are upstairs.”

Connor turned to look at him with some suspicion. “You said talk.”

“In my rooms. Which are upstairs.” He didn’t want the others finding them. He hadn’t decided yet, not entirely, on what he was going to do.

“Well,” Connor followed him up the stairs. “I suppose you’re too rich to bother murdering me!”

He obviously thought he was funny. Becker thought of all the rich men he’d encountered in his long life, of how many of them had liked to kill just for the sport of it. How many of them had simply enjoyed watching the light go out of someone’s eyes, just because they could. He opened the door to his rooms, waited, then followed Connor inside and closed the door behind them.

“No Christmas decorations?”

Becker always kept his rooms fairly sparse. Not like the others. Sir James liked to surround himself with fine things, riches, only the very best. The ladies… they liked trinkets and toys, so much clutter. So many souvenirs of lives they’d taken. They were probably out on the hunt now, and would come back with some small token that had grabbed their attention. Not Becker. He kept nothing. Nothing, except…

“That looks old.”

Connor was staring up at _the_ painting. It hung there, over the fireplace, always accusing.

“It is.” Becker remembered the artist, who had lived here for years with him. Remembered the smell of the paint as it dried on the canvas. Remembered that one day when Becker had lost control and how sweet the artist’s life’s blood had tasted as it flowed so warm and vital into Becker’s mouth. Remembered how empty Becker had felt afterwards, when that blazing talent was suddenly gone from his life forever. He kept the painting. Just that one. It was fitting.

“It’s Icarus.”

So, the boy had a small amount of knowledge of legends. Although he might just as well have got it from those movies or shows that the modern world was so fond of. He was unlikely to have actually read Ovid, student or not.

“Indeed. How can you tell it’s not just some fallen angel?” The boy’s face, in the room’s dimmed lighting, might have been an angel. Guileless, trusting, not realising death was so close. How could he be so stupid, after what he had seen? Surely he didn’t truly believe that Becker had saved him? “I might like religion.”

“You don’t.” He sounded so sure. “The wings, they’re collapsing because the wax is melting, and the sun’s bright behind him. And that other one, far below, that’s his father watching him fall.”

“He can’t save him.”

“Some people are beyond saving.” The boy gazed at the picture a little longer. “It’s beautiful though. Who’s the artist?”

“Nobody you’d have ever heard of,” Becker answered quickly. And it was true. Perhaps they would have done, the people now, if Becker hadn’t found him first. If Becker had been able to resist. But that sweet neck, the man’s scent, his taste… “He died young.”

“He was your friend?”

That was unexpected. Becker paused, thrown for a moment. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

There was a reminder, there in his face, of Becker’s lost love. Something in his eyes, the way he looked so sadly at Becker. As if he cared. Nobody cared, not here.

“Am I like him? Is that it?”

Becker wondered how Connor had made that leap. But he was right. “A little.”

“What happened? An accident?”

“You could say that.”

Connor moved closer. “I’m sorry. Were you and he close?”

“He was my lover.” He watched Connor’s reaction to that, seeing the genuine sympathy in his face.

“I’m sorry,” Connor repeated. He glanced towards the open door to the bedroom, then back at Becker. “Is that why you wanted me here? Am I some sort of substitute?” He paused, then added. “I could… I wouldn’t mind.”

The fool. Becker’s first impression had been correct. He turned away, angry at how much he wanted this warm and vital creature, then back.

“Do you know how you would die if we did that?” he snarled. “Do you know what would happen while you lay panting beneath me, so much blood swelling hot and tempting there for me, and you in no state to defend yourself? Do you know what I would do to you? What I _will_ do to you, if you stay here?” The painting was behind him, always there, always a silent accusation.

Connor stared at him, and some of the confusion was finally fading from his face. “What… you mean you’re some sort of vampire…”

“What’s going on?”

The door flew open, and there was Lady Jessica, deceptively tiny, striding into the room. Lady Emily was hovering behind her, as she always did. Two delicate and enticing little birds, deadlier by far than that dead raptor ever could be.

“These are my rooms, Jessica.”

She ignored him. There was a tiny, single spot of red on her top. Barely noticeable. He licked suddenly dry lips at the reminder that he had only taken in that dinosaur’s blood. He wanted more. But she was looking past him, at Connor.

“Who’s that?”

“There was a creature. One of those rips from the past. I… brought him home.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She knew, of course. She was his sire and picked up on everything.

“You’re going to try to keep him here. You know what happened, before.”

“I’ll be more careful.”

“Careful?” she exclaimed. “You swore that last time.”

It was true. And he’d failed.

“I’m older now. Stronger.”

She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “Oh no, I can’t deal with another century of you haunting the place, bemoaning a lost love. Have you any idea how tedious that is?”

Becker had been the one who had lost his love, so yes, he thought, he did have some idea. “It was an accident.”

“Yes, your fangs accidently ripped open his jugular. Little sips, Becker. Little, tiny sips. They can last for years if you’re careful.”

“What’s she talking about?” Connor asked nervously.

Jessica ignored him. Emily was still standing in the doorway. “Should I get Sir James?” she asked. “He’ll know what to do.”

“ _I_ know what to do,” Jessica snapped. She had that look in her eyes. Becker knew it, knew there would be no arguing with her and no chance of stopping her.

Connor looked around in confusion. “What…?”

He got no further. Jessica moved faster than he could possibly have seen, struck and bit deep into Connor’s neck.

He didn’t even have a chance to scream.

\---

“You’ve improved somewhat in recent months.”

Sir James was always immaculate in the clean, tailored lines of the Armani suits he preferred in recent decades. Sometimes Becker felt inadequately dressed beside him and the equally immaculately dressed ladies. Not so much now, not with Connor at his side. He would always look smart compared to Connor.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“It’s the boy, I suppose?” He didn’t wait for an answer, sweeping on past with a brief, disdainful look at Connor in his trainers and jeans. “Keep him in your rooms, Becker, at least until he’s learned how to dress.”

Connor looked vaguely offended, and opened his mouth to say something but Becker quickly shook his head and pulled Connor in the opposite direction. He’d mostly managed to keep Connor out of sight. That might have to carry on a while longer. Sir James wasn’t known for his tolerance or his patience. There had been that incident with the insane Irishman that Lady Emily had brought home once, the one who had spouted nonsense about dinosaurs and the future, and rips in time. The fool had been dispatched in record time, and not a speck of blood on that immaculate outfit.

“Don’t.” Becker warned. “Just do as he says.”

“Like I have to do what you say?” Connor was joking, teasing him. Becker could see it in his eyes.

Becker shrugged. “You don’t seem to mind that so much.”

Connor had, generally, adapted quite well after the initial pain and shock. Far better than Becker had done when he’d been turned, centuries before. Connor had stayed with Becker rather than taking up his own room, and quickly taken to the idea of continuing his studies. His new speed and strength was allowing him to take down the creatures with ease, and he kept talking about superheroes and superpowers. Becker hoped he wouldn’t do so in front of Sir James.

Connor fed on the creatures, too. Becker wondered how long that would last, how long before he needed to feed properly. They thought differently about death, those brought up in the modern world. Connor would probably struggle at first, fight against it. And then he’d taste that hot, sweet nectar, and be no better than the rest of them. But for now, he was just Becker’s.   And Becker would continue to make the most of that.

Becker followed him up to their rooms, and closed the door.

* * *

 


End file.
